


Slow Me Down

by ladykiki



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Ending, De-Aged Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester Bears the Mark of Cain, Episode: s09e11 First Born, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-07
Updated: 2016-10-10
Packaged: 2018-08-20 01:28:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8231420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladykiki/pseuds/ladykiki
Summary: As if Angels and Demons weren’t enough, the Winchesters run into problems on the home front. A little one.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Leahelisabeth (fortheloveofcamelot)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fortheloveofcamelot/gifts).



> Ok, this isn’t the story I set out to write. I’ve got, like, twice as many words scrapped in various places from things I tried that didn’t work, and I’m pretty sure I’ve written every scene in this story at least twice and I ran out of time to be picky. So if it’s still awful, I’m really sorry. Also? I’m claiming this story as a fill for the de-aged square on my h/c bingo card.
> 
> To the mods: Thanks for running this challenge, you guys are awesome.
> 
> To my recipient: I’m pretty sure this isn’t the story you had in mind when you wrote your prompt. It’s not the story I had in mind when I sat down to write your prompt. It’s not the first version, nor even my first choice of prompt (I wanted to combine your Sam gets lost prompt with the Born-Again Identity aftermath sick Sam prompt), but I hope you like it anyway. If you don’t, kindly blame Sam and Dean for being jerks. (And maybe, possibly, keep an eyes out, after the reveal? If I can get that other prompt written, I will. ETA: It's taking longer than I expected, or hoped, but I am still working on it, ok? Ok.)

**Title:** Slow Me Down  
**Creator:** ladykiki  
**Recipient:** leah_elisabeth  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Word Count or Media:** 12,242  
**Warnings:** Canon typical violence

#

Dean hadn’t expected to come back to the Bunker. Certainly not when he still hadn’t ganked Gadreel--who was still on the loose, along with Metatron, and while Abaddon--Dean huffed, disgusted--was apparently Dean’s newest problem. To be fixed with the help of a demon-- _like wearing a target on your back_ \--who’d gotten Tara killed and who had more of an agenda than he’d let on, Dean could feel it. 

None of which changed the fact that when he’d checked his phone after Crowley checked out, he’d had five missed calls, all from Castiel, all in vaguely panicked tones, all about Sam. Who hadn’t exactly been steady on his feet the last time he’d seen him. 

_Dammit, Cas_ , he thought, pushing open the door to the Bunker five hours after he’d gotten the angel’s message--nine hours after Castiel had left the first one, and trying not to feel like he was walking over his grave. _Sam was supposed to be safe here._

There were no signs of struggle, no overturned chairs or scattered papers, but Castiel still strode toward him grim and anxious. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said. “He wouldn’t go to sleep until you got here.”

“Who?”

The angel didn’t have a chance to answer. 

The next moment, a kid barreled out of the library, shaggy haired and barely reaching Dean’s waist, wearing one of Dean’s old shirts cinched at the waist by a piece of rope. Dean’s amused _where did you get a kid, Cas?_ died stillborn in his throat.

 _Sam_ , he thought, feeling like he’d been sucker-punched. 

“Is it Dean, Cas? Is he here?” The kid’s eyes skated past Dean, no doubt searching for a kid with dark hair and freckles. His excitement dimmed when one didn’t magically appear, face falling into a pout, fingers twisting in the fabric of his shirt-dress. “You said he was coming.”

Dean forced his legs to finish carrying him down the stairs. He couldn’t take his eyes off his little brother. His _actually little_ brother. “What the hell, Cas?”

“I did,” Cas agreed gravely, ignoring Dean. He crouched so that he actually had to look up at the kid. “Do you remember how I told you Dean would look different than you remember?” He waited, and Dean with him, and after a moment Sam nodded. “Well. This is Dean.”

He twisted to peer up at the hunter and Sam followed suit, serious frown on his face, his gaze jumping over Dean--looking, he knew, for evidence that Dean was his Dean. Obligingly, Dean copied Cas’s crouch, feeling muscles twinge that had tightened up after the throw-down at Cain’s. If anything else twinged, he forced it down deep and didn’t acknowledge it. Forced his lips to smile. “Hey, Sammy.”

Sam hesitated. Which was weird because he didn’t remember the kid being shy. He remembered constantly having to remind him that they couldn’t tell everyone everything, that he needed to be careful, that not all strangers were nice.

Finally, Sam stepped forward, closing the distance between them quickly once he decided it was okay. Dean forced his legs to stay bent, not moving as little hands reached up, pulled the skin of his cheeks back towards his ears, stretching his face tight, almost painfully so, before tugging the skin the other way, smooshing his cheeks until his lips pursed.

This Dean remembered, if only just, a little Sam climbing in his lap, bored in another motel room, playing with his big brother’s face while he asked questions. Everything from why the sky was blue to where dad went to why they didn’t have a mommy. Now’s Sam was silent, though, walking his fingers up to Dean’s forehead, pulling up toward his hair, then down so his eyes were hooded, stretching it flat then letting go. 

Sam wasn’t a threat, wasn’t and never had been, really, except that one time they’d both made some pretty big mistakes, but when Sam cupped careful hands around Dean’s eyes and leaned in close enough Dean couldn’t focus on him properly, it took everything in him not to shoot to his feet, shove the kid back, the tension of it thrumming under his skin, the Mark a hot brand on his forearm. 

A dark churn in his gut.

He had no idea what Sam was looking for, peering closely at one eye, then the other, but he looked long enough for Dean to get nervous about it, before Sam pulled back and squished his face again. Grinned dimple bright, said, “Dean,” soft and awed, like he’d just found him and Christmas had come early.

It made him feel dirty, the blood he’d spilled caked on his hands.

#

“Will you play with me?” Sam immediately demanded, seizing Dean’s hand and tugging lightly. “Mr. Cas doesn’t know how.”

Dean stood, his little brother a pendulum and he echoed, “Mr. Cas?” in amusement. “Sorry, Sammy. Me and Cas have to talk a bit, and then we’ve got work to do.”

“Work?” Sam pouted, then looked hopeful again. “You’re not supposed to have work. What kind of work?”

“Like the kind of work Dad--does.”

“Oh.” After a moment of toe-scuffing, head-hanging disappointment, he looked up hopefully. “Can I help?”

“Can you read?” When Sam immediately scowled, Dean nudged his shoulder. “Sure, you can, squirt. But how about you go change first?”

He got a skeptical look, shades of an older Sammy--or maybe that was wishful thinking--before Sam took the bag Dean held out, peering inside. His face lit up with new excitement. God, he missed when pleasing the kid had been that easy. “I get new clothes?”

“Think you can get them on by yourself?”

“Yeah!”

Sam scampered away. He sighed, scrubbing his hands over his face as he tried to wrap his mind around what had happened. Between the aches and the headache and the lack of sleep, it was a non-starter. “Ok,” he said, finally, “run it by me again. You pulled angel juice out of Sam and he shrank?”

“Yes. That is the simplified version. But, Dean,” Cas said seriously, “absent the angel, Grace has no independent volition. Without Gadreel physically there, the only person who could have utilized the leftover Grace within Sam, was Sam.”

“Sam,” Dean repeated, and got a fractional nod in confirmation. Fortunately, or unfortunately, angels weren’t the only beings on their shit list. “What about Crowley?”

Cas started in confusion. “A demon could never--”

“Forget the Grace,” Dean ordered with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Crowley’s mother was a witch, right? It wouldn’t be the first time he’d used magic against us.” And by getting Dean to go after Abaddon, he’d certainly made sure the hunter was distracted. 

By Castiel’s expression, he knew the angel didn’t buy it, but his friend still nodded slowly. “It would have to be something Sam had on him.”

“Crowley had plenty of time to plant something while he was shoving needles in my brother’s brain,” Dean added, not missing the sharp gaze Cas threw him in response to the growl. He clenched his hands into fists to keep from rubbing the Mark. And didn’t know if the disquieting-- _hunger_ \--he felt was for Crowley’s bloody head on a stake, or Sam’s pain. “Where’s Sam’s clothes?”

“Downstairs. Dean--”

“Awesome.”

Dean made it as far as the library before Sam came barrelling around the corner. Cas hadn’t known what size he needed, and Dean hadn’t cared enough to ask, not really realizing Sam would need them, so the pants were a size too small, and the shirt was a size too big. Sam didn’t seem to care, bouncing excitedly with a grin swallowing his face. 

“I’m ready!”

“Great.” He got Sam by the shoulders and steered him to Cas. “You and Cas are gonna get started while I take care of something real quick.”

“But--” Sam balked, planting his feet--or trying to--and getting nowhere. Dean easily steered him to the table and pressed him down into the nearest chair. As soon as Dean let go, Sam twisted up onto his knees, gripping the back. “Can’t I go with you?”

“Five minutes,” Dean countered, holding his hand up in demonstration. “Then I’ll be right back. Make sure Cas saves me one of the good books.” He clapped Sam’s shoulder--too hard--then hurried away, the better to miss Sam’s sad puppy eyes.

Because he couldn’t get attached. Sam apparently didn’t know it, but his adult self was still pissed at Dean, and Dean still needed to make things right by himself. Sam couldn’t keep getting hurt for Dean’s mistakes. And, more importantly, Dean was going to find whatever had done this really fricking soon, and switch Sam back. 

He took the stairs in a rush. The sooner that happened the better.

#

It didn’t take long to find the coin. 

Cas had left Sam’s clothes folded on the table: shirt, pants, boxers, socks, shoes--all of it. He felt down each sock, reached into the shoes, then set them aside, the boxers after them. The shirt he shook out, felt along each hem, then he moved on to his brother’s pants. 

Sam carried his change in his right front pocket, so Dean was surprised to find a coin in his left pocket. It was larger than the standard quarter, thicker, heavier--he was thinking silver dollar, maybe, until he pulled it out, got a look at the battered metal, the serpent twisted across the front. 

#

The anger was hard to fight. They’d already destroyed one of these, seen firsthand the destruction it caused, knew how--no matter what you wished--it always turned bad. And Sam had made a wish anyway?

There was no one to ask, though. Four-year-old Sam didn’t remember going away to college, or Dad dying, or Dean dying and coming back. He didn’t remember freeing Lucifer or getting trapped in the cage, or leaving his brother to rot in Purgatory for a year--all things so much bigger than one lousy wish on one lousy coin. There was no way he’d know what his adult self had done. 

That didn’t stop Dean from asking, anger swallowed down with everything else he couldn’t deal with right now. 

“Hey, Sam,” he greeted, partially out of necessity, and partially because the kid had turned to look at him before he’d even turned the corner, lighting up at the sight of him. “You ever seen one of these?”

Curiously, Sam came up on his knees, turned sideways in the chair to face Dean, and Dean tensed in anticipation of him standing--not because he doubted his brother was capable, but because he could too easily picture the fall and the busted open head at the bottom (and wasn’t certain what he felt was dismay, exactly). Dean closed the distance between them quickly, and Sam stayed on his knees, eagerly taking the coin he passed over. 

Closely studying first one side, then the other, little fingers smoothing over the crude drawings on the front and back. Dean watched closely, but Sam’s expression never changed. The kid looked up. “Is it Dad’s?”

“Ah--No. No, it belonged to someone else.”

“Where’d you get it?”

“Found it.” He tossed Cas a pointed glance: “In his pant’s pocket.”

“In who’s pocket?” Sam wanted to know, back to studying the coin. He didn’t fight when Dean nudged him to sit down properly, even though the table came up to his chin. 

“What is it?” Cas asked. 

“Babylonian wishing coin.”

“What’s Babylonian?” Sam asked.

Cas cocked his head. “You think the coin is responsible.”

“Makes sense,” Dean argued. Except for how it hadn’t been glued to the bottom of a well. “I checked his clothes, Cas, every stitch and seam. Didn’t find anything else hinky.”

The angel conceded the point with a dip of his head. “And there are no new marks on his person.” The how Castiel knew that a fact Dean was absolutely not thinking about in any detail.

“So it’s settled.”

“But, Dean,” Cas said, and Dean resisted the urge to growl. He flexed the fingers on his right hand to dissipate the itch. “The coin requires the ritual of the well to activate the magic. As the coin was still in _his_ possession, that requirement was not fulfilled.”

Sam’s head craned up to look at him. “We have a wishing well?”

“No.” He frowned. “What about the Grace? Could it have--I don’t know--activated the coin while it was being extracted? Without a focusing ritual.”

“Sam would have been the focus,” the angel said, slowly, continuing over Sam’s _focus of what?_ “If that’s true, then the magic latched onto a latent desire.”

“Magic?” Sam asked, perking up, at the same time Dean interjected, skeptically, “To be a midget again?” 

Cas didn’t get the joke, frowning soberly at him. “The extraction process was quite painful, Dean. It wouldn’t surprise me if, no matter what desire he expressed while in his right mind, he’d simply wanted to get away.”

 _To his childhood?_ Dean pursed his lips, an uncomfortable niggle in the pit of his stomach. “Yeah. Maybe.” He looked at Sam, who stared back, brow knit in confusion and frustration, that big brain obviously turning, trying to understand what they were talking about.

“What are you talking about, Dean?”

Dean didn’t know how to explain it to him. 

#

Unsurprisingly, there didn’t seem to be a lot of information on magic coins that were accidentally activated by angelic Grace. There wasn’t a lot on angels, period.

Leaning back, Dean rubbed his fingers of his dry, burning eyes, feeling like the useless books had sucked his energy out through his eyeballs. Next to him, Sam’s head dipped, caught itself, then dipped again, the kid’s eyes still open only through sheer force of will and stubborn determination. The kid had been chattering at him practically since Dean put the book of fairy tales in front of him, spinning fanciful tales based on the pictures and the words he did know that Dean had mostly tuned out, so he wasn’t exactly sure at what point his little brother had stopped.

Only Cas looked no worse for wear after trolling through books for the better part of the morning, his expression still as worn as when Dean had first arrived, and he looked up when Dean pulled his hands away from his face. Sympathetic concern had dug grooves into his forehead. “You should get some rest, Dean.”

He scoffed quietly. Sleep hadn’t exactly been his friend even before Kevin. But Sam had dragged his head up at the sound of Cas’s voice, or possibly at the sound of Dean’s name, and was blinking at him blearily. 

Cas’s words-- _He wouldn’t go to sleep until you got here_ \--rang through his head, reminding him of his big brotherly duty.

“Think you’re right.” He slapped the table as he stood. “How about it, squirt? You ready for bed?”

Sam nodded, lifting his arms to be picked up. It would’ve taken more brain power to refuse. Dean settled him against his chest, and Sam immediately wrapped his arms over Dean’s shoulders, turned his face into Dean’s neck. He was steady as he made his way back to Sam’s room. 

“Will you read me a story?” Sam asked.

“What? All that reading wasn’t enough for you?” Probably hadn’t been, Dean allowed; the Men of Letters certainly hadn’t expected to house children, not even geeks like his little brother.

As he’d expected, Sam shook his head. “Want you to tell me.”

“I’m tired, Sam.”

“Tomorrow?”

Dean’s tried brain automatically tried to figure out if that would mean tonight or the next before he gave it up with a roll of his eyes. “Maybe.” Maybe Sam would forget. Maybe he’d be full-grown by then and back to hating Dean.

“Will you rub my back?”

“Tired, Sam,” he repeated, and was surprised when Sam didn’t immediately say _Please_ , just nodded, his hair scratching faintly against Dean’s jaw.

“Will you stay with me?”

The question caught Dean off-guard, something in the tone sounding like his Sam--his overgrown, independent, bitchy Sam. He tried to pull back to look at the kid’s face, but Sam tightened his arms and pressed his face into Dean’s neck, making an unhappy sound. 

Dean shook off the thought. _Imagining things_. “Until you fall asleep,” he agreed. 

Sam grunted his disagreement, perhaps realizing--like Dean had--that that wouldn’t take long. “Stay,” he insisted, with a demonstrative squeeze of his arms and legs. “Just tonight.”

There were reasons why that was a bad idea, not least of which that Sam could and would insist on _just tonight_ every night of the year, if he let him. But Dean didn’t look too hard at the warm impulse that had him agreeing--“Yeah, ok”--just detoured into his room, helped Sam shuck his jeans (relieved beyond the telling of it to find Sam had put on underwear earlier), and pulled off his own, before settling the pair of them in bed, Sam pressing up against his side as soon as Dean stopped moving. 

As predicted, Sam fell asleep quickly. To Dean’s surprise, he did, too.

#

He just didn’t stay that way long. 

Dean shuffled zombie-like into the kitchen, looking for coffee after too few hours of sleep. He’d woken abruptly after a nightmare that had ended bloodier than his usual--because, obviously, watching Kevin die wasn’t enough; now he had to turn a blade on Sam, too.

Though, the fear he’d felt upon waking to Sam in his bed, the blade he kept under his pillow in his hand, had at least cleared his head.

Dean scrubbed wearily at his face, realized only after he’d grabbed the carafe that there wasn’t any coffee in it, made a frustrated noise deep in his throat, and went about remedying that with--perhaps--sharper than necessary motions. He determinedly blanked his mind while he waited for the caffeine to percolate--the better not to imagine his baby brother covered in blood--then downed a cup still standing in the kitchen. 

By the time he shuffled out to Cas with a second cup, he felt a little more awake and mentally fortified. “Found anything?” he asked. 

Cas glanced at him, no doubt taking in the bags under this eyes, the pallor to his skin, but his friend just turned back to the papers spread out around him, pushing them around a little to better spread them out. “I found the file the Men of Letters kept on the coin. According to their notes, they retrieved it from a witch living in Michigan, tipped off to the coin’s presence when the residents of Akron experienced an extended and viscious run of bad luck. They, uh, couldn’t find any evidence that it had been activated, when they arrived, but the bad luck ended once the coin was removed.”

“So, what? It just acts on random wishes?”

“Unlikely.”

The angel passed Dean the file. There wasn’t much to it, just a longer report than what Castiel had summarized, a magnified picture clipped to the inside, and an inventory of what other artifacts the Men of Letters had confiscated from the witch. He frowned at the picture, at a series of scratches he didn’t remember that almost-- _almost_ \--looked like writing. 

Nothing else jumped out at him. 

He dropped the file on the table. “Awesome. So what do you suppose the odds are that witch found a way to harness the coin’s magic without the inconvenience of dropping it in a wishing well?”

“It would explain how Sam was able to make use of it.”

“But then how do we undo his wish? Last time, we had to find the original wisher, get him to remove the thing from the well, then everything returned to normal. Maybe Sam counts as the original wisher, maybe he doesn’t, but there’s no well. That’s not exactly an option here.”

“The file didn’t mention any way of reversing the coin’s effects.” When Cas caught Dean’s eyes, his expression was set in grim lines. “It may be that it’s not possible to reverse the effects of the coin.”

“No,” Dean denied, pushing away from the table like that could force the idea away. “We’ll just have to have Sam wish everything back to normal.”

“Dean,” Cas called, spreading his hands helplessly when Dean turned back. “Even if that works, it may not be enough just to get him to say the words. He may have to _want_ to go back.”

#

Naturally, Sam wanted to go to the park. 

He bounced into the library fully dressed, tennis shoes squeaking on the worn polish of the wooden floors.

“Dean!” he exclaimed immediately, latching onto his older brother’s arm when Dean was too slow to pull it away. “Can we go to the park? Can we, can we, please?” He jumped up and down, pulling Dean’s arm like he wanted to sink them through the floor, and held on when Dean lifted his arm, instead, giggling when his feet dangled off the ground.

“Park?” Dean asked. “What park?”

“Deeeean!” he squealed delightedly, like that was the most ridiculous reaction his older brother could have. “Let me down!”

He bounced immediately back into Dean’s leg once his feet hit the ground, flinging his arms around Dean’s waist and peering up at him with his pointy chin digging into Dean’s hip, uncomfortably close to a place his little brother didn’t need to be getting close to. Ever.

Dean carefully, but firmly, detached him, setting him back so there was some semblance of personal space between them. Sam barely pouted for a minute before he was bouncing in excitement again. “There’s always a park! Please? Dad won’t mind. You don’t have to go to school, right?”

Dean wasn’t touching what Dad would or wouldn’t mind with a ten-foot pole. Instead, he sat down. Sam came easily when Dean tugged him over. “Actually, Sammy, we need to talk.”

“After the park?”

“No.”

“But if we don’t go early all the other kids will take the swings!” Sam whined, pulling back against Dean’s grip.

“Where will they take them?” Cas asked, suddenly, looking up from whatever he was reading, prompting a giggle from Sam and another pull on his arm, a laughing, _Mr. Cas!_ “Shouldn’t you stop them?”

He looked tired, possibly a little spacey from spending all morning buried in moldy research, but Dean glared at him anyway. “Not helping,” he told the angel.

“You should come with us,” Sam countered.

Cas blinked, taken aback. Under different circumstances, Dean thought Cas would have happily agreed to go to the park with Sam. As it was, he glanced at Dean, who shook his head the barest fraction. 

Sam--Dean had obviously known what he was talking about when he called Sam a monkey when they were kids, threatening to sell him to the zoo--tugged Dean’s arm again, using it to bungee into Dean’s legs while he turned his pleading on Cas. “Please? It’ll be fun! We can go on the swings, and the slide, and they might have a jungle gym, and a see-saw, and merry-go-round, and--”

“Sam.” He nudged the kid’s shoulder, distracting him from the litany. 

“I think it would be better if I stayed here,” Cas said carefully into the break. “I, uh--I believe Dean has something he needs to discuss with you, after.”

Sam turned to him expectantly, already bouncing on his toes. Eyes on Dean, but mind already off at the park, planning what he’d do first. And Dean--Dean was just done. So many of his memories of Sammy revolved around books and research, he’d forgotten how much time he’d spent making up games to run off the kid’s energy. How hard it was to get him to settle when he was worked up, and Dean just didn’t have the energy. He thought he might end up shaking the kid if he tried. Besides, the talk would probably go easier if Sam was mellow, anyway.

“After the park,” he allowed. As Sam bounced toward the door, Dean rubbed his forehead, marshalling his patience.

#

Dean let Sam run around the park until it got dark, pushing the kid on the swings when he asked, humoring him when he ran up to Dean with a question or an observation or a cool treasure, but otherwise keeping an eye out for anyone out of place or paying too much attention. Nothing happened, but hours of being on alert had strung his nerves tight, fraying his patience so that when a man bumped into him as they were leaving, trying to corral his kid, Dean almost pulled on him. 

“Hey, watch it!”

“Sorry,” the guy said. “Zach, put that down! Sorry, man, I didn’t mean-- _Zach_!” He darted away to snatch the kid’s hand from his mouth, and Dean took a deep breath, forcing his shoulders down away from his ears, carefully slipping his fingers off the hilt of his knife.

Sam was watching him when he turned away, wide-eyed and solemn, and Dean twitched. “What?” he demanded. 

Sam blinked. “Can we get ice cream?” he asked, eyes lighting up at the prospect. 

Guilt obviously made Dean a pushover, ‘cause he nodded.

#

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean ventured, once they were settled in the car with banana splits, Sam’s smothered in so many sprinkles he wasn’t sure there was ice cream underneath. “You remember that coin I showed you?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What if I told you it was magic?”

“Really?” Sam demanded, twisting to look at Dean with bright eyes. “ _Cool_!”

“Yeah. Not really.”

Sam cocked his head curiously. “Why not?”

Dean poked at his ice cream, jamming the sprinkles toward the bottom, fighting a lifetime of instinct. Because when Sam had been four, _protect Sam_ had always been about keeping him in the dark. Only Sam wasn’t supposed to be four, was supposed to be able to protect himself from angels and demons and stupid frigging magic coins. “Because this coin takes what you want, and gives it to you bad.”

“Bad how?”

“Bad like--” He paused, considering the examples he had to choose from. “Bad like a sandwich you really wanted making you sick. Or like a giant, talking teddy bear friend that’s too depressed to play with you anymore.”

Dean could see the moment Sam got it; his expression shifted, dampening, his eyes shadowed. “Oh,” he murmured, and frowned at his sundae. 

Dean nudged him with the back of his wrist. “What is it, dude?”

“Like if I wished my big brother didn’t have to go to school anymore, and he came back growed up and had to work instead?”

For a moment, Dean honestly didn’t know how to respond to that: bite the bullet and explain everything, or possibly take the out, if his brother’s statement really meant what he thought it did. He lifted his eyebrows encouragingly. “Is that what you did? Wished I didn’t have to go to school anymore?”

Sam’s lips twisted is a sad grimace that gave Dean his answer even before the kid nodded, head hanging and fingers picking restlessly at his jeans. “I’ve done it a lot,” he admitted. “It’s just never worked before.”

It still hadn’t, but Dean wasn’t going to explain the truth to Sam if he didn’t have to. As long as Sam wished things back to normal, it wouldn’t matter what wish he thought he was undoing.

“You do what Dad does?” he checked, his unhappiness evident in the downward curl on his lips.

“Yeah,” Dean agreed. “Long hours and lots of travel. And, I’m sorry, squirt, but you can’t go with me. I won’t be there to watch you this time.” He almost wanted to take the words back when Sam looked up at him with teary eyes, even if they were true.

“You’d leave me again?”

Exhaling against the impulse to promise Sam he wouldn’t, Dean reached out, squeezing the back of his neck like John always used to, like Dean started young, following his dad’s lead. “The job’s no place for kids, Sam. You know that.”

Sam nodded. 

“Don’t worry about it too much, though. You can fix it.”

The kid looked up. “I can?”

“Yeah, Sammy, you can,” he assured him. “All you have to do is wish everything back to normal.”

#

Sam was quiet on the way back to the Bunker, so different from just hours earlier that Dean kept glancing at him to make sure he was still there. He was, but dark had fallen while they were talking, making it difficult to see his expression except in stolen moments, when a street light brought a moment of illumination, or a passing car illuminated the interior.

When he could see Sam, his little brother looked sad, pressed against the door with his feet drawn up on the seat, hugging his legs to his chest, staring blankly out the window.

Dean twisted his hands on the steering wheel, wishing he could go faster, get back, get this done. Didn’t quite dare with Sam so small in the passenger seat. It was a risk he took regularly when Sam was giant-sized, but images of wrecked cars kept flashing behind his eyes: twisted metal, broken glass, blood splashed over the upholstery. 

He shoved the part of him that wasn’t appalled at the images down deep and washed a hand over his mouth, glanced again at Sam, startled at the sheen of tears on his brother’s cheeks. Checked again, in the next flood of light, but Sam hadn’t moved.

He cleared his throat. “What’s with the waterworks, Sammy?”

His solitude broken, Sam shifted away from the door, wiped at his cheeks. “Nothing,” he said. “I’m just gonna miss you.”

“Miss me?” He stole another glance, saw Sam pull his lower lip between his teeth. “Dude, I’m not going anywhere. I’m still gonna be here after this is over.” Until he made sure Sam was ok, anyway. Then he had a hunt to get back to. He refused to feel guilty about that. He had enough to feel guilty about already. 

But Sam shook his head. “I’ll have my Dean back,” he said. “But that’ll make you not exist.”

Guilt, stupid and irritating and useless, poked at Dean’s heart. “You’re not unmaking me Sam. You’ll just have to wait for me to grow up again.” 

“It’ll be different.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “But different’s not always bad. And next time, you’ll grow up with me. We’ll have a long time to play together and stuff. Right?”

Sam hesitated, chewing his lip. Not for the first time, Dean wished he knew what was going on inside his brother’s freaky head. Then the kid nodded, decisive. “Right.”

“Right,” Dean echoed. “Okay.” He twisted his hands restlessly over the steering wheel and resolutely didn’t think beyond getting back to the Bunker.

#

Cas was still in the library, the Babylonian wishing coin still on the table, so that’s where Dean took Sam. 

“Alright, kiddo,” he said, and bent down so he and Sam were face-to-face before holding up the coin. “Now, it’s only going to work if you really mean it. No doubts, no hesitations. You have to really, really want everything to go back to normal. Ok?”

Sam nodded.

“Ok.” He put the coin in the kid’s hand, then straightened, watching as Sam frowned at the stupid thing, turning it over in his palm, once, twice, before setting his jaw in the stubborn jut that had meant trouble for dad when Sam hit preadolescence and decided he knew everything. Then he closed his fingers over it, tight, and squeezed his eyes shut, screwing up his face. 

Dean exchanged a glance with Cas, then went back to staring at Sam. 

When Sam relaxed his grip and opened his eyes, nothing had changed. Sam ducked his head, looked at his hands, then up at Dean. Dean looked at Castiel. 

The angel was still focused on Sam--focused, more specifically Dean saw, on the coin. “Cas?” he prompted. 

“The magic didn’t activate.”

“You wished for things to go back to normal, right, Sam?”

“I promise,” he said, lips twisting unhappily. 

“Perhaps it would help to speak the wish aloud,” Cas suggested.

Sam shot Cas a scornful look. “Everyone knows wishes don’t come true if you tell.” And then he looked stricken, staring up at Dean with panic growing in his eyes. “Dean,” he said urgently. “ _Dean_. You _know_. The wish can’t come true.”

“No,” he snapped, gripping Sam’s hands before his brother did something stupid, like throw the coin, or--or--he didn’t know, but he had to make a conscious effort not to grind his little brother’s tiny bird-bones together. “Yes, it can. You haven’t told me, right? It doesn’t count if you haven’t told me. That’s the rules.”

Sam didn’t look like he believed Dean, but he nodded anyway, shakily looking to Cas for--Dean didn’t know. Agreement. The angel nodded and crossed the room. “As best we’ve been able to figure out, the original wish was powered by angelic Grace,” he said. “In the absence of established ritual. We agreed--” With a pointed look at Dean. “--that it was Gadreel’s Grace that allowed the magic of the coin to become active. That Grace no longer resides within Sam. So it stands to reason that what we need to do is add Grace.”

Castiel closed his hands around Sam’s, Dean slipping his out of the hold warily, trying to figure out how Castiel touching Sam would supply Grace when it had taken Gadreel possessing him before. “Try again, now, Sam,” Cas directed. 

Obediently, Sam closed his eyes, bowed his head. His throat worked around a hard swallow and a tremor went through his body. But he was still pint-sized when he opened his eyes minutes later, and Cas looked troubled.

He hesitated. “Perhaps it’s necessary,” Cas said carefully to Dean, “to recreate the original conditions. If the power must come from Sam. . . .” 

They’d have to get the Grace back into Sam.

“No possession,” Dean responded immediately. Castiel wasn’t Gadreel, wasn’t psycho or going to hurt them or anyone they cared about, but Adult Sam had been very clear about how he felt regarding angels feeling up his meatsuit. There was enough wrong between them, and with this situation, that he wasn’t going to compound the issue by ignoring that.

Cas looked ready to protest, but glanced at Sam and nodded. “It’s not ideal, but we should be able to reverse the process that removed the Grace. Understand, Sam,” Castiel said, “the process is very painful.”

Sam turned to Dean for reassurance. “It’ll be fine,” he said. “I’ll be right there the whole time.”

“Okay,” Sam agreed. “I want to do it.”

Cas looked unsatisfied. Dean had only the faintest idea what process Cas meant. Hell, when Anna had gotten her Grace back, she’d simply swallowed it—inhaled it. Whatever, it didn’t matter. What mattered was getting Sam back to the way he was. 

Because one thing Dean knew for certain: Crowley, Abaddon, any and every monster they’d ever faced that had a grudge against them, would never leave Sam out of it if they discovered he was helpless. Dean couldn’t stick around to make sure he stayed safe, and he couldn’t keep Sam locked up in the Bunker until he was eighty-five. So whatever needed to happen to get Sam back sasquatch-sized? That was what was going to happen.

“Great,” he said, slapping his hands together. “Then let’s get this show on the road. No time like the present, right?” 

“It would be best if we relocated to the infirmary,” Castiel said, Dean easily ignoring his disapproval as he led the way. 

#

Dean hadn’t spent a lot of time in the infirmary and--as far as he knew--neither had Sam. They were so used to motel room triage, they hardly needed a special place to treat their injuries. The kitchen or library usually sufficed. So it was darker than he’d expected, the minimal lighting focused over the work areas, such as the chair where Cas waited, leaving wide swatches draped in shadow. 

Maybe that was why Sam looked like he expected a monster to jump out at them. 

“Hey,” he said, nudging Sam’s shoulder. “You know I’m not gonna let anything bad happen to you, right?”

It took a moment, but Sam nodded. “Dean?” he said. “What if this doesn’t work?”

“It will.” Failure wasn’t an option.

Grabbing his hand, Sam tugged until Dean stopped and faced him. “But what if it _doesn’t?_ ”

Dean dropped into a crouch, game face on. “Then we’ll figure something else out. All right?”

Sam’s lips twisted unhappily, more grimace than smile, and Dean ruffled his hair. He trailed Dean to Cas and the chair and the--frankly disturbing--large syringe Cas cradled in his hands. Dean eyed it warily, then made sure he wiped the apprehension away before turning to Sam. 

“You ready?”

Sam glanced at the chair instead of the needle, which was probably for the best. In answer, he lifted his hands. 

Obligingly, Dean picked him up, surprised when Sam wrapped his arms around Dean’s neck and hooked his chin over Dean’s shoulder. “Dean,” he whispered, “will you still be my brother, even if it doesn’t work?”

“Hey, I told you. It’s going to work.” Sam held on tighter. “Sam,” he said, pushing the kid away so he could look into his eyes. “Hey, listen. You will always be my pain in the ass little brother. No matter what. Ok?”

Sam nodded. It didn’t take long to get him settled, the kid squirming briefly in the too big chair to find a comfortable position. He latched onto Dean’s hand with all the strength of a boa constrictor and wouldn’t let go, breathing accelerating as he got a good look at the needle.

Like an idiot, Cas let him look. “Remember, Sam, this is going to hurt, but you need to focus on your wish or it won’t work. Do you understand?”

“Dean,” Sam said. “Dean, I don’t think I can do this. Dean--”

“Hey!” He leaned over the bed, getting between and the needle. “Yes, you can. You can, Sam. And you have to, right? So we can grow up together and protect each other. Right? Isn’t that worth a little pain?”

Sam’s brow was still pinched, but he let Dean ease him back against the chair. Dean kept his hands spread flat against the kid’s shoulder for good measure. Castiel put his hand on Sam’s forehead, said, “Close your eyes, Sam.”

Sam did, squeezing them as tight as he could. He was trembling under Dean’s hands. Then Cas turned the kid’s face away, exposing the side of his head, and put the tip of the needle just behind Sam’s ear. The angel looked at Dean.

 _Last chance_ , he seemed to be saying. _Stop this, Dean_. But Dean couldn’t. What Castiel actually said, when Dean remained silent was, “It’s important that he stay as still as possible,” and Dean nodded. “Are you focused on your wish, Sam?”

Castiel slid the needle into the tender flesh behind Sam’s ear.


	2. Chapter 2

Sam hadn’t known what to expect. When he had to go to the doctor, Dean always distracted him from the needle and made him laugh, or made him mad, so he never felt the needle going in. But Dean wasn’t distracting him this time. He held Sam’s hand, which helped, but he didn’t tease Sam about being a girl and maybe the doctor should check. Maybe they got it wrong all these years.

Mr. Cas wasn’t a doctor, though, he was an angel, so maybe that was why. 

He swallowed and squeezed this Dean’s hand and wished his Dean was here. 

But that wasn’t what he was supposed to wish. He was supposed to wish things were back to normal, and he clenched the coin tighter in his other hand, thinking _please, please, please_ \--

Then the needle slid into his neck, sharp and big, and it didn’t just sting, it bit--hard--and kept biting, pushing hard and sharp and unrelenting into his head, filling it up until there was no room for anything else. Tears flooded his eyes and collected in his throat, and it burned. It burned, and it burned, and it burned, and Sam wanted to say stop, and he wanted to say, it hurts, and he wanted to say, _Dean_ , but it wasn’t his Dean. _I don’t want to do this anymore, Dean._

His Dean would’ve crawled up on the chair-bed with him and held Sam against him. His Dean would’ve rubbed his belly and whispered in his ear.

“Focus on your wish, Sam.”

But he couldn’t. The pain grew and grew and pushed it out, swallowed it up, swallowed _him_ up, and he was--

\--burning, flames licking at his toes, at his hands, jumping up his arms and down his throat; he was--

\--sunk deep into the water, twisted and turned, and his lungs burned and burned and burned, and he was drowning, he was--

\--stuck, pinned, someone pressed tight up against his back, hot breath rushing past his ear; a spike sunk into his chest, into his heart, eating into him like acid, and he couldn’t get away, couldn’t move, the fire consuming him--

\-- _Dean!_ \--

\--and he was big, was dying, was looking through somebody else’s eyes. _How many people are you going to kill, Sam?_ Was pressing his hand to someone’s head, someone smaller, and light flashed, burned, danced behind their eyes, left them burned black and red, and Sam--

_I can’t!_

\--gasped.

“Dammit, Cas, Dean growled, hands pressed painfully tight across his shoulders. “Get back here. We’re not done.”

“It’s not working, Dean,” Mr. Cas said, his voice frustrated but distant, and Sam realized he couldn’t feel the angel’s hand on his head anymore. He turned his head. “I told you, Sam has to _want_ to--”

“He does!”

“Does he? Did you even tell him the truth, Dean? You can’t force him to make a wish just because you’ve decided it’s what’s best.”

Dean’s face was white and tight, his eyes bright and furious, and Sam made himself very still. “That’s not what this is,” his brother said. He should have been asking if Sam was ok, if he needed anything, if he could hear him.

Sam could, but it felt like his head was floating, light and dizzying, his body somewhere far down below. 

“There’s something going on with you, Dean,” Mr. Cas was saying. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed that something’s different--”

“It’s none of your business,” Dean growled, his voice still terrible, his hands still hard. “You’re here to heal Sam. That’s it.”

“I thought we were friends.”

“Well, you thought wrong.”

 _Wrong._ Dean was wrong. “Dean?”

There was a stranger staring down at him. He wore Dean’s eyes and used Dean’s hands, but Sam didn’t know him. Weakly, Sam started struggling. “Let me go,” he demanded. 

“No,” not-Dean said. “Sam, stop. We still have to undo the wish.”

“I don’t want to!” Which wasn’t true, he wanted his Dean now more than ever, but he kept struggling, trying to get away. 

“Let him go, Dean,” Mr. Cas said, Sam had had always liked Mr. Cas. “It won’t work if he isn’t willing.”

“The hell it won’t!”

“He has to make the wish, Dean,” Mr. Cas growled, suddenly closer, not touching, but close. “If you try to force this, you’re going to get Sam killed.”

Sam struggled hard, nearly bucking Dean off, and Dean growled. Cas snapped, “Dean!”

And Dean snapped back: “So what?”

Sam stopped moving. Dean washed a hand over his mouth, let go off Sam. Sam rolled off the chair-bed toward Mr. Cas. Dean watched him, eyes wide, and slowly backed further away. His Dean would have ripped the lungs out of anyone who wanted to him. 

“I-I, I didn’t mean that. Sam. . . .”

Sam slipped behind Cas. “You’re not my brother,” he told the imposter. “You’re not my brother.”

The fake Dean backed further away, every time he repeated, so he kept saying it until Mr. Cas put a hand on his shoulder.

“Sam--” the angel said, but Sam twisted away. “He’s not my brother!”

He ran. Dean had longer legs than him and could always catch him, even if Sam got a head-start, but he ran anyway. Up the stairs and down the hall and into the room Mr. Cas had said was his. His chest felt tight and he almost wished the fake Dean would run after him, would catch him up in his arms and hold him close and tell him he was wrong, he’d been confused, he was fine. But he pushed the door closed behind him and turned the lock and backed into the corner, with his legs drawn up to his chest, and buried his face in his knees. 

Dean hadn’t caught him. He didn’t want to cry over this fake Dean, but hot tears slipped out anyway, kept slipping out until the storm in his chest settled down, and the quiet in the room moved into his head. He stayed where he was while his breath slowed and his cheeks dried and a plan formed in his head. 

Then he pushed to his feet.

#

It was quiet when Sam stuck his head out of his bedroom door. He looked both ways, but couldn’t see either Mr. Cas or the fake Dean, and he couldn’t hear them. So he pulled the bag he’d filled with supplies over his head, closed the door behind him, and crept down the hall. 

He kept expecting someone to round the corner or come up behind him and demand to know what he was doing. Dean--his Dean--had always known when he was about to do something he wasn’t supposed to, and he wasn’t supposed to go out without Dean or Dad. But Dean and Dad weren’t here, so he needed to find them. 

He made sure the heavy front door latched behind him, pulling it slowly and keeping the knob twisted so it would close quietly, like Dean--his Dean--had taught him. 

Everything looked so much bigger when he turned around, swallowed up by the dark, without Dean there to make it feel safe. Part of him wanted to go back inside. Mr. Cas was nice, if weird, and Sam didn’t think he’d hurt him. But he wasn’t Dean. Sam needed to find Dean, his Dean, the real Dean, needed to make sure he was ok, and make sure that Dean knew he was ok. With that thought, he started walking.

It took a long time to get to the bus stop, and even longer for the bus to come. Long enough that the sun was peaking over the horizon. And Sam messed up the money for his fare, because he couldn’t find any quarters, but when the bus pulled away, he was on it. 

#

Sam zoned out watching the scenery pass by. There were buildings and trees, some bright colors or cool designs, but mostly it just looked like city and farm, and that stopped being interested pretty quick when all you could do was look at it. At some point, the hum of the engine, the murmur of the people lulled him to sleep. Reminded him of cruising along with Dad and Dean in the Impala, and he settled in feeling warm, the rumble of the tired familiar over asphalt. 

Then he dreamed that a boat took him to Dean. It was small and white and rocked a lot, but it dropped him right in front of the green door where Dean was waiting to pull him into a hug. His brother smelled like dirty socks and BO, but that was ok because he told Sam, _I’m never letting you go again_ , and held on tight forever. 

And then a giant coin fell on them and Dean let go to push it away. The coin had a serpent on it, bent like it was walking on its knees, and the sun caught it, so it glinted bright in Sam’s eyes, even though they were inside. When it was gone, Dean looked like fake Dean, still smiling but sad and hurt. 

“I’ll do it alone,” he said. “I have to protect you, Sammy.” 

Sam didn’t have any idea what he was talking about, but he heard himself say, “Go. I’m not going to stop you,” and it hurt, even though a part of Sam remembered he’d been the one to walk away this time, and Sam really wanted to say, _I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. Don’t go, Dean_ , but his mouth wouldn’t work and Dean walked away, got swallowed up.

He woke to a rough hand shaking his shoulder, the smell of dirty socks following him up. He blinked blearily, realizing with shock that he was still on the bus and--his stomach dropped--no one else was on with him, except the bus driver, the engine quiet. He turned quickly to the window, but they were parked, and he wasn’t where he was supposed to be. He didn’t know where he was.

“Time to go, kid,” the bus driver said, stepping back when Sam focused on him, fumbled his bag over his shoulder. The bus driver jerked his head toward the front. “Your dad’s waiting for you.”

 _Dad!_ Sam’s heart leapt, and he moved faster, stumbling over his own feet trying to get the bag untwisted and not run into the seats and get off the bus. Best yet, if Dad was here, Dean would be, too, and he really wanted to give his big brother a hug. His dream had made his stomach feel funny. 

But it wasn’t Dad waiting when Sam got off the bus. It was the fake Dean, and Mr. Cas, waiting as Sam hesitated at the foot of the stairs. For a moment, he thought about making a scene. He could tell the bus driver that the man wasn’t his father, that he didn’t know either of them, and he would probably take Sam away and have him call his father.

But he might also call the cops, and even if the fake Dean wasn’t his Dean, Sam still knew he was a Dean, and didn’t actually want to get him in trouble. He just wanted to go home.

He searched Dean’s face, but he didn’t look mad so much as sad, his eyes red like he’d been crying, so he went to his not-brother, and when Dean held out his hand, Sam took it. He was too big to need to hold hands to cross the street, but it felt better to hold Dean’s hand.

Settled a little of the feeling his dream had left in his tummy.

He chewed his lip while they passed bus after bus. “Are you mad?”

“I’m not mad.” He sounded a little mad. Dad would’ve been mad, and he thought his Dean would’ve been, too, if Sam had left either of them in the middle of the night.

“Even though I ran away?” he asked.

For a moment, Dean didn’t answer, then he said, “I understand why you did it.”

If that was true, Sam really didn’t understand why Dean wasn’t mad. He tried to think about what it would’ve been like if Dean had told him Sam wasn’t his brother and run away and--he scrunched his nose. He couldn’t really picture it, but it still didn’t feel good. 

“I’m sorry, Dean,” he said, because he needed to say something to make the bad feeling go away.

Dean huffed. “Naw, you weren’t exactly wrong.” His smile was tight and unhappy and pale when he looked down at Sam’s shocked face. “You just weren’t exactly right, either.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll explain in a minute.”

He opened the passenger door and let Sam crawl into the front seat, surprised when Mr. Cas climbed into the back. Neither said anything as Dean started the car, so Sam didn’t, either, but it had been more than a minute. None of the streets looked familiar, so Sam tried to pay attention to where they were going. 

His stomach grumbled, reminding him he’d missed breakfast. And--he squinted up at the sun--maybe lunch. 

“Dean?” he asked, after a silent debate his stomach won. His maybe-not-brother grunted. “I’m hungry.”

“We’ll stop in a minute.”

Dean was collecting a lot of minutes.

But they did stop just a few minutes later, only it wasn’t at a diner or fast food place. With some surprise, Sam realized they were back at the park. Dean shifted the car in park and cut the engine, and Mr. Cas climbed out, but Dean stayed where he was, staring out the windshield and draping his wrists over the steering wheel. 

It made him antsy. He didn’t really remember Dean being quiet.

Finally, Dean sighed. “You know, every time I think our lives can’t get any more fucked up, something like this happens, and I just--” He gestured, like he was throwing something away, and Sam’s brow furrowed in confusion. 

He twisted around so he was facing Dean. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, you’re not the reason I’m a grown-up, Sam. I’m exactly as old as I’m supposed to be. You, though--” He fixed Sam with a serious face that made it hard to breathe. “I don’t know what you wished for, dude, but you were thirty-one when I left, and then Cas called me and you--were you.”

 _Four_ , Sam thought, instead of thirty-one. He didn’t know what to think about that. He frowned. Stretched out his hands. He definitely didn’t feel thirty-one. 

“And with everything that’s going down--with the angels and the demons, and all the enemies we’ve made--” Sam’s eyes were wide as Dean washed a hand down his face, glanced at his little brother. “I promised to keep you safe, Sam, and I’ve done a crappy job of it lately, I know, and Cas--but I can’t--you can’t protect yourself like this. You don’t remember what you need to know to protect yourself from--everything--and you don’t have enough time to learn it. I can’t let you die, Sammy. I can’t. But I don’t know how to protect you right now. The only thing I could think of was to get you back to normal.” He looked at Sam, dark-eyed and wary, a question in the tilt of his head, his eyes. _All right?_

Sam didn’t know if it was. Or even if he could do what Dean wanted, but he remembered Dean babbling when he was nervous, and that was right. Sam believed him, and he knew Dean was scared. He wanted to try. “Ok,” he said. 

Which was when Dean straightened, focused on something past Sam, and sort of--stilled. “Stay in the car, Sam,” he ordered, almost like back at the Bunker. “Doesn’t matter what you see or hear, you stay here. Got it?”

He fixed Sam with a hard look, waited for Sam’s agreement, then shot out of the car, slamming the door behind him. He pulled something out of his jacket as he walked, something long and shiny that he quickly tucked against his side. It looked kind of like a stake, and Sam wondered if that meant Dean was going to kill vampires. If vampires were real.

He scrambled up to his knees, pressing closer against the glass so he could see better. The guys circling Mr. Cas didn’t look like vampires. They looked like normal people, but they weren’t smiling, and they all had those silver stakes, not even hiding them like Dean. And there were six of them. 

Apprehension churning his stomach, Sam wished he was out there. Six against two wasn’t very good odds. Six against three wasn’t good odds, either, not when you were the three, but it was better than when you were the two. But he couldn’t. Even if he hadn’t promised Dean he’d stay in the car, Sam was only four. He didn’t know how to fight. Dad said he was going to teach him, but he hadn’t gotten around to it yet. 

The middle one’s mouth moved and Sam shuffled closer to the open window, straining his ears to hear.

“--chose them over your brothers. You then compounded your transgression, first, by betraying Michael to Lucifer.”

“Michael served his own agenda, not Father’s,” Castiel interjected.

“Then, by slaughtering all who stood against you. And, now, you have conspired with Metatron--”

“I was misled by Metatron.”

“As you were _misled_ by Crowley?”

Sam couldn’t see Mr. Cas’s face, but his shoulders rounded against the hit. Dean, who had stopped on the edge of the conflict, started making his way closer.

“Truly, I would be doing the world a favor.”

“You know what else would do the world a favor?” Dean asked, coming up level with Cas, spaced he was closer to one of the bad guys. “Falling on your sword.”

“Stay out of this, Winchester. This is your free pass. Walk away now, and we won’t kill you.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so.”

“Dean,” Mr. Cas protested softly. “This isn’t your fight.”

“Shut up, Cas.”

“Where’s the other Winchester,” a blond girl asked, head cocked as her eyes scanned the area around them. Sam shrunk back against the seat. “Don’t tell me: trouble in paradise, Dean?”

“Leave the Winchesters out of this,” Mr. Cas said over whatever Dean had been about to say. “Your quarrel is with me.”

“Dean Winchester had his chance to walk away,” the middle guy--the leader--said. “Now, you’re both dead.”

Everything happened fast, after that. The leader swung at Mr. Cas with the silver stake, and everyone started moving, too fast to track. Heart in his throat, Sam saw Cas bend away from a strike, do something that sent one of the stakes flying, then bend away again and bury the stake in the blond guy’s chest. 

The guy lit up from the inside, bright white light flashing under his skin, escaping out his eyes and mouth, and then--for one moment, Sam could have sworn he saw a pair of wings--and then the light flared one last time and exploded--

It would’ve been really cool, except the angel was dead, dropping boneless to the ground when Mr. Cas pulled back. That was what they were trying to do to Dean.

Then one of the bad guys smashed Mr. Cas in the mouth, and the girl Dean had been fighting sent him flying. Dean landed hard and rolled to his feet, staying bent over with his hand at his stomach, and with another angel coming for him. 

Sam didn’t really register the intent to move, but his hand closed on the door release and pulled.

Dean straightened with the angel’s tug, burying the stake in his chest. Sam breathed a sigh of relief, then caught sight of the girl, of the sneer on her face. “You’re going to pay for that, ape.”

“Bring it, bitch,” Dean spat. 

Sam didn’t want her to bring it.

Another angel flashed, and Sam tore his gaze away to make sure it wasn’t Mr. Cas. It wasn’t, but he didn’t pull away fast enough and the tip of one of the stakes drew a glowing line up his arm before Mr. Cas yanked it close and stabbed. The third angel flashed out. 

That left two, which was better odds.

Then the leader grabbed Mr. Cas from behind, stake right up under his chin like a knife, forcing Mr. Cas’s head back. 

Sam swung his gaze back to Dean, hoping his brother could help. And it looked like he could: he swung the stake at the girl, who blocked with her own stake, then he ducked a punch aimed at him and got her in the face with his own. She staggered back, letting Dean get another punch and then a cut to her arm.

She cried out, folding over her arm, and Dean grabbed her shoulder, ready to push her up and finish it, and Sam saw in a flash what would happen instead. He’d pushed the door open before the thought consciously registered. 

“No!” he gasped, dashing forward with no real thought beyond getting to Dean.

It didn’t help. 

The stake sunk into Dean’s chest, and his brother stiffened, body held rigid before he staggered back, sunk to the ground. Wide, horrified eyes latched onto Sam. He exhaled Sam’s name, blood speckling his lips, and Sam froze. 

Freezing didn’t help Dean, but the girl was between Sam and the nearest stake, and getting back in the car wouldn’t help, either.

“Well, well,” the girl said, pleased and taunting. “The other Winchester.”

“Leave him alone, Muriel. He’s an innocent.” _Mr. Cas._

Muriel looked down her nose at Sam, stalking slowly closer. “He’s a Winchester,” she retorted. Dean’s blood colored her stake. She crouched in front of Sam—“Muriel, no!” falling on deaf ears--and caressed Sam’s cheek with the tip of the blade, painting it red. She smiled sweetly. “Your mother should have drowned you in the bathtub when you were born.”

She raised the stake.

He could hear scuffling from where Mr. Cas had been, and he hoped the angel wasn’t dead. He was nice. 

He couldn’t see Dean, and he really wanted to. He wanted to ask if dying hurt. He wanted to hold on to Dean and never let go.

He wanted a stake, and to be big and strong, so he could kill Muriel like she’d killed Dean. To stop Dean from dying.

The stake came down and Sam threw his arm up, but the pain never came. Sam squinted his eyes open and saw the bright white light trying to escape her eyes and mouth. It pulsed brightest, flared, and was gone, and Muriel sank to the ground. Dean, standing right behind her, swayed, his chin painted red with blood. 

“Sam,” he rasped. “You okay?” He stumbled. 

Sam rushed forward, leaning hard into his brother’s leg to try to keep him upright. “I’m ok.”

Dean’s hand landed heavily on Sam’s back, and Sam knew he was going down, knew he wasn’t going to be enough to help his brother, and then Mr. Cas was there, bracing Dean from the other side.

“I’ve got him,” the angel said. “Help me set him against the car.”

“We need to call 9-1-1,” he argued, helping Mr. Cas get Dean against the car anyway. He’d be more comfortable there.

“This will be faster.” Sam didn’t have time to ask, before Mr. Cas lightly touched his hand over Dean’s chest. It felt like static electricity, like being dipped in water, like--magic, only Sam wasn’t sure how he felt anything at all, because it didn’t touch his skin. 

Then Dean drew a deep breath, and another, exhaling hard and not bringing up more blood. Mr. Cas pulled back, and helped Dean sit up straighter. “Thanks, Cas,” his brother said, his voice no longer so raspy.

“I couldn’t fix it all,” Mr. Cas cautioned gravely, flexing his injured arm. “But it should do for now.”

“Feels good as new.”

Sam didn’t believe it. He lunged for the hem of Dean’s shirt, ignoring his brother’s startled “Hey, whoa,” especially since Dean didn’t push him back. The skin was red and sunken where the stake had gone through, but it was closed. Sam reached out to trace the edges of the wound in a daze. 

Dean caught his hand, pressed it solidly against the scar and didn’t flinch. “I’m ok,” he said. Sam nodded, feeling his eyes belatedly flood with tears, and he ducked his head. Dean put his hand on Sam’s head, held him close for several breaths, Sam listening to his heartbeat, then he ruffled Sam’s hair. “Let’s get out of here. I don’t know about you, but I’ve had enough of this park.”

#

Dean went to bed when they got back to the Bunker. Sam hovered in the doorway, not willing to disturb his brother’s sleep, but equally unable to trust that he wouldn’t disappear if Sam let him out of his sight.

Dean had almost died because of Sam. Because Sam had run away. Because Sam had made himself four instead of someone big who was able to help protect Dean the way Dean protected him.

“Dean will be alright, Sam,” Mr. Cas said, appearing suddenly behind him, even if he had to walk now that the angels had been cast out of heaven. He put a hand on Sam’s shoulder the way Dean did. “He’s just tired, now. When he wakes, he will be good as new.”

“I know.” It just didn’t seem real. He twisted to look up at the angel. “Mr. Cas? Was Dean there when I made my wish?”

Mr. Cas’s eyebrows went up. “No,” he said. “Dean wasn’t there.”

Sam nodded. He chewed his lip as he looked at Dean, making up his mind, then he turned back to Mr. Cas. “Can we do it now?”

“Do what now?”

“Fix my wish.”

“But--” Mr. Cas also looked to Dean, then knelt so he could look straight into Sam’s face. “Your brother would want to be there.”

“I know.” But Dean and Cas had said it needed to be the same as the first time. “I want to do it now.”

“Are you sure?”

He was.

#

That certainty was hard to hold onto when he walked into the infirmary the second time. The place was just as big and scary as he remembered, and this time he knew what was going to happen. How much it would hurt. 

And Dean wasn’t there. Not even the wrong Dean.

Clenching his hands into fists, he let Mr. Cas help him up onto the chair. It was big and uncomfortable, padded but hard, and cold, and he shivered.

“We don’t have have to do this now,” Mr. Cas said. He had the syringe, the Grace inside it seeming to pulse, bright and pure, searing white.

Sam sucked air through his nose and forced his jaw to unlock. “I want to.”

Mr. Cas nodded, so Sam laid back, forced his legs to straighten, and put his arms at his side. He tried to imagine being big enough that his feet hung over the bottom, big enough that he didn’t have to stretch to hold onto the sides. He wanted that. Wanted to be able to help Dean when he hunted. Wanted to not feel helpless.

Dean said that was how things were supposed to be.

“Are you ready, Sam?”

He wasn’t going to be able to relax, not knowing how much it was going to hurt, so he locked his muscles tight, instead. Nodded. 

_I wish everything was back to normal_. Even if it meant that Dean was gone. _I wish everything was back to normal_. He’d be big enough to track Dean down then. _I wish everything was back to normal_. And he’d know how to fight. He could make things right.

 _I wish everything was back to normal_. 

The bite of the needle was sharp, bright, piercing. _I wish_ \--It grew the further it traveled, becoming a spike, an ice pick, a torch. Burning as it went until it was the only thing he could feel. -- _normal._

And then it got worse, ratcheting up like the radio dial turned to the limit, like the high note that broke glass, like his head was being filled with cement, with acid with--

_Normal_

\--with the sun, with--

_Wish_

\--lightening. 

_Dean_

His brother stood before him, the gentle wash of waves like static in his ears, eating at his head. He felt burned out, exhausted, rode hard and put up wet, and Dean looked devastated, like dad dead and Sam gone and Hell coming. He said, “I’m poison, Sam. And I’m not going to drag anyone else down with me.”

The pier flashed photo-negative, white-black on black-white, and then Sam was sucked back out of his head into darkness. 

“Sam.”

There was a hand on his forehead, warm and sweaty and too small to be Dean’s. His eyelids fluttered, trying to open. “Cas?”

“I’m here.”

 _Where’s here_? His eyes rolled in his head. Breathing felt like swimming through glass. His head felt thick and heavy, and he licked dry lips with a dry tongue, tried to force words past them. “Did it work?”

“It worked.” He thought Cas stroked his hair back from his face, but he wasn’t sure, couldn’t seem to make his eyes focus, or his nerves transmit proper signals, darkness slipping back around him. 

_Dean?_

“Get some sleep, Sam.”

#

Sam woke up in his bedroom, a foot pressed into his hip mildly painful. He dropped his hand atop it automatically, drawing a deep breath and stretching, trying to wake up his body and mind, and decided he felt better than his vague memory suggested he had. So, only slightly tenderized. 

“Cas said you’d feel like crap for awhile still, between the post-Trial damage and the trauma of shoving Gadreel’s Grace back into your noggin, or wherever, but that you’d eventually be good as new.” Dean paused, and Sam found the energy to turn his head. 

His brother looked rough, a couple days’ worth of stubble on his cheeks, his skin pale, his eyes bloodshot. Which, come to think of it, wasn’t much different than the last time he’d seen Dean, before. “How long have I been out?”

Dean shrugged, careless. “ ‘Bout a day.”

Sam quirked a disbelieving eyebrow. Not so much because he thought Dean was lying as it didn’t feel like it’d been that long. 

“Maybe two. Man, I don’t know. I woke up from getting stabbed to find out my kid brother volunteered to shish-ka-bob his brain. And the reintroduction is harder on the system than the extraction, Cas said.” The _and I wouldn’t have known it had gone wrong until you were gone_ never made it past Dean’s lips, but Sam knew his brother. 

“I seem to remember you were okay with that the first time,” he said, didn’t quite flinch—apparently he was still mad enough to take his shots where he could get them, didn’t quite miss that Dean did flinch, even if he played it off.

“Yeah, well. The first time I was there to supervise.”

Right. He closed his eyes. Dean retracted his foot, dropping the chair he’d dragged up to Sam’s bedside back to all fours. The way his breathing changed, Sam knew he’d leaned forward, braced his forearms against his thighs.

“How’re you feeling?” Sam asked, before he could make whatever confession he’d been chewing over. 

Dean paused. “Fine. Cas was able to sneak a second session in between healing your stupid ass.”

“You wouldn’t let him possess me.”

“Yeah, well.” Dean made a face, washed his hand over his mouth. “It was too weird, the thought of having my best friend up inside my baby brother.”

Sam wrinkled his nose, letting the diversion stand. “Thanks for that.” That mental image would stick with him forever. 

Dean huffed, going silent and still a moment later. His, “You almost died,” was hushed, a secret whispered to the walls.

“So did you,” Sam told the darkness of his eyelids.

“I can’t do it, Sam,” he said suddenly. “I can’t sit back and watch you die. Not and not do anything in my power to save you. I’m sorry I . . . I’m sorry I didn’t have enough time to find a better a better way. Ok?”

No, it wasn’t, but Sam’s chest caved in thinking of the alternative. He breathed through it. “You told me that your life wasn’t worth the life of another’s,” he said, carefully, ignoring Dean’s warning, “Sam.” “You told me that what’s dead should stay dead.”

He looked at Dean, at his brother’s sallow face and aching eyes, and thought they probably mirrored each other. “When I asked you to talk about Hell, you said there weren’t words. You said you couldn’t make me understand. And I can’t make you understand what it was like to be trapped in the cage with Lucifer, but I need you to understand how important it is for me to be able to trust you, Dean. How important it is for me to make my decisions. Ok?”

“Ok.”

It probably still wasn’t, but Sam took the promise and let go the breath he’d been holding, letting his body sink back into the bed and his eyes sink closed. Breathed in the silence with his brother beside him. 

“Are you staying?” he asked. 

Dean hesitated, still for a long moment, then shifted uncomfortably. “If you want me to,” he said. His guilt talking, probably, but whatever.

“Yeah,” Sam breathed. He’d get up in a little bit. He and Dean would get back to looking for Gadreel, for Metatron, talk about whatever Cas had said Dean was hiding, and they’d figure it out. Somehow. “Jerk.”

“Bitch.”


End file.
